


To be Strong

by FitzsimmonsForever



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, Alistair Fitz's A+ parenting, Child Abuse, F/M, Fitz is my son and I love him, FitzSimmons - Freeform, Fitzsimmons have a conversation in a coffee shop, Past Abuse, SHIELD Academy, Things are revealed, hurt him and I'll fight you, that has nothing to do with the story but it needed to be said
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 23:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11588361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FitzsimmonsForever/pseuds/FitzsimmonsForever
Summary: “An accident like that would only happen to you,” she quips, trying to steer the conversation into something more lighthearted.“What makes you think it was an accident?”Or the time when Fitzsimmons has an intense conversation in a coffee shop and things are revealed.





	To be Strong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stjarna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stjarna/gifts).



> This was written by request of stjarna based on the prompt “What makes you think this was an accident?” (Its super similar to your story, sorry for that. But this is sort of what was going through my mind when I picked the prompt for the competition). 
> 
> I’m actually not too pleased with how this turned out. I’ve just been really critical of myself lately. If you could do me a favor and just let me know what you thought about it in the comments below, that would be a big help to me. <3 Thank you! 
> 
> Warning: Descriptions of abuse. Stay safe, lovelies.

The little coffee shop on the corner of Green’s Street is a popular one among the students of SHIELD’s prestigious science academy, being only a block from the campus. It’s a tiny little building, four or five tables all squished up against the brown brick walls. The counter in the back is tall, a glass case of pastries sitting on either side of the cash register. Behind that, a huge blackboard decorated with flowery text, describes each of the drinks on their expansive menu. 

Usually, each table in the shop is full, and today is no exception. It is a week before final exams, and every possible space is occupied by a young student, textbooks and papers piled across the tabletops, students pouring over laptops, furiously scribbling notes, trying to cram as much information in their head as they can, helped by the aide of caffeine. 

Fitz has been lucky enough to snag the table by the window, his laptop open in front of him As he studies, he occasionally glances up to the young woman sitting across from him, watching her absently chew on the end of her pencil, brow wrinkled in thought. 

He can read her every movement, can feel the nerves coming off her slender form in waves. She hides it well, her breathing calm and her eyes fixed down in front of her as if she were deep in study. But he can see her anxiousness in the tension in her shoulders, in the way her hands grip her pencil, in the way she flips a page with an odd, slow carefulness. 

“What’s up?” he asks her, fingers wrapped loosely around his little blue mug. He takes a sip of his tea. 

She glances up from the textbook propped in her lap, shaking her head. 

“Im going to fail the Chem test, Fitz,” she says, and he can hear the exasperation in her voice. Her notebook is unfolded in front of them on the table, and he can see her handwriting, the letters soft and slanted, written in navy ink. He reaches out and grabs the notebook, eyes traveling across the graphs, detailed and neat, better than any notes he had ever taken. 

“Simmons, this looks great,” he tells her with a grin, pushing his now empty tea mug away from him. “You have nothing to worry about.” 

She turns back to her book, staring at the page in front of her. Maybe if she looked at it long enough, she would magically remember everything on the page. 

It is sad really, how nervous she gets before tests. It’s not like she’s afraid to fail. 

Simmons is after all, at the top of the class, making the highest marks on every test to date. But every single time, she panics, thoughts that she can’t quite control running through her mind. 

What if she vomits and has to leave? What if she forgets how to read in the middle of the exam? What if she is given the wrong test packet and bubbles all the wrong answers in? 

“I can hear you thinking from here, Jemma. Close the book,” Fitz says. Her heart warms when she looks up and sees the half smile on his face.

She shuts the textbook and leans back in her seat. “I don’t have time for breaks.” 

He rolls his eyes, but the smile remains. “Make time.”

And then, Fitz starts talking, beginning to tell her a story. She half pays attention, her mind still buzzing, barely registering what he is saying; something about a monkey and a can of peaches. She really wish she had more mental energy to be following the story. 

“…listening are you?” 

She looks up at him from where her eyes had been fixed on her empty mug of tea. “What?” 

He shakes his head. “I was asking if you were even paying attention, Jemma,” he says with a little sigh. “You really are worked up over this.” 

She nods, feeling a little guilty. But Fitz isn’t mad at her, just pushing her textbook into her bag to get it out of her view. He knows her all too well. 

“You’re going to pass the final,” he says to her. 

She shakes her head. “You know how I get,” she says. “I just get so scared. What if I don’t? What if I forget everything? What if I fall out of the window before I can finish the test?” 

She means it as a joke, but she can see his easygoing expression tighten, can see the way a frown begins to tug at the corners of his mouth. 

“You know I fell out of a window once,” Fitz says, voice tight.

“No way,” Simmons says with a shaky laugh. 

“Second story.  Tried to catch myself too,” he says, and she can sense his desire to change the subject. 

Simmons shakes her head. “An accident like that would only happen to you,” she quips, trying to steer the conversation into something more lighthearted.

“What makes you think it was an accident?” 

He is so quiet, she almost doesn’t hear him over the chatter of the students around them. Her heart freezes in her chest. 

“What do you mean, Fitz?” she asks him as gently as she can. He is looking down, hands foldedon the table. He doesn’t answer her, and before she even thinks about it, she reaches a hand over to him, folding her fingers over his hand in what is supposed to be a comforting gesture. 

But he flinches back, arm flying to the side. 

The crash of the mug against the stone floor makes heads turn to stare at them, the porcelean shattering into a dozen pieces. 

In an instant, a barista is by their table with a broom in hand, but the girl freezes, the tension in the air palpable. 

“Fitz?” Simmons asks. 

He shakes his head once, still not looking up. The barista scampers away, leaving the pieces of mug scattered across the floor. His left hand is clutched on his arm, fingers gripping tightly against the red fabric of his sweater. She doesn’t reach out to him, though her skin crawls with the desire to touch him, to erase the pain she can see written across his face. 

“Fitz did someone push you out the window?” she asks. 

Finally, he looks up and she can see the tears glinting in his eyes. 

“My da,” he says, voice cracking. 

It has been years since he has talked about it. Fitz isn’t sure why he has even mentioned anything now. 

No one at the Academy knew about his father. No one, except for his mother, knew. 

But Jemma is his best friend and he trusts her and she has always been there for him. 

“He was mad at me,” Fitz continues. “Funny thing is, I don’t even remember what for.” 

Simmons nods, ignoring the people still watching them. She rests her elbows on the wood of the table. 

“He was hitting me. Mum tried to stop him,” Fitz continues, sniffing. “And I backed against the wall. I didn’t know the window was behind me.” 

“God, Fitz.” It’s all she can say. 

How do you answer your best friend when they say something like that? How are you supposed to make something like this better? 

“I was in the hospital for a little while after that,” he says, brushing his hand over his cheek. “But, I got away with only a broken rib and a fractured arm. Mum thinks it’s cause I fell into the bushes.” 

He finishes the story, hands shaking as he closes his laptop with a snap. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he stands, gathering his bag up in his arms. She scrambles to gather the rest of her things, stepping over the broken mug on the floor and following him to the door. 

The night air outside is cool, the winter wind biting at her cheeks with an animalistic ferocity. The air clouds with the puff of her breath. 

The stars glow overhead behind the clouds. 

The world is quiet. 

He is standing facing the empty street. 

“Fitz, turn and look at me,” she says. “Please.” 

And he does, slowly facing her, as if he is afraid to. She takes a step towards him, holding a hand out, hovering it just out of his reach, waiting. He swallows and moves to where her hand brushes over his shoulder, accepting the touch that had frightened him earlier. 

She wraps her arm around his, pulling him to her side. 

It is something they sometimes do, this not-so-casual touching. Rumors had spread around campus about their relationship, not that either of them had minded very much. This is just the way they are, close enough to know what the other needed without a single word having to be spoken. 

“I didn’t know,” she says. The street lamp overhead flickers, artificial yellow light making Fitz look pale. He leans into her touch. 

“It isn’t important,” he tells her. “I don’t know why I even told you.” 

“I’m glad I know,” she tells him. 

_I wish I could have helped you,_ she doesn’t say out loud. 

But he can sense her thinking them, slowly relaxing as the silence changed from a thick tension to a gentle, almost relaxed, calm. 

“You-“ he swallows. “You don’t think I’m weak or anything for still thinking about it do you?” 

“Of course not, Fitz,” she says. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

She pauses. There is a tainted sadness in her chest, something that feels warm and cold. She would almost call it happiness, but that wouldn’t be the right word. 

There really isn’t a word that can describe it. 

“You’re my best friend, Fitz. Strong, amazing, kind,” she says. “Nothing he did to you could ever change that.” 

With that, she falls silent. They have a lot more to talk about, she knows. But for now, she just lets herself be stilled by his warmth. 


End file.
